


All Is Bright

by havenwolds



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hank is an idiot, Holiday Fic Exchange, Holidays, M/M, Romance, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 21:59:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17353382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havenwolds/pseuds/havenwolds
Summary: All Is Bright (Except for Hank).Somehow when Connor had said he was “participating in the charity auction”, Hank had neglected to consider that that meantas a date.





	All Is Bright

**Author's Note:**

> For spicyagidyne on Tumblr!

**December 3, 2039**

Hank is freezing his balls off. The weather in Detroit this time of year is always a crapshoot, and he definitely chose the wrong coat for an outdoor event. Despite the cold, Campus Martius is packed with people for the weekend holiday festival, kids weaving through the crowds as their parents stumble after them, juggling shopping bags and paper cups of hot chocolate.

The crowd is especially dense where he stands, staring at the empty platform where the Detroit Police Department will shortly be hosting their third annual charity date auction, an event that never fails to surprise Hank by how much money Detroit’s citizens are willing to throw down for a chance at a mediocre dinner with a baggy-eyed chain smoker.

The money does go to support a local youth mentoring organization, though, and Hank’s never seen the auction in person; this time of year has sapped Hank’s interest in doing much of anything over the last few holiday seasons. This year, though, he’s been feeling better, and he can think of worse ways to spend a Saturday afternoon than watching some of his fellow officers get bid on by a bunch of senior citizens.

Movement at the edges of the stage suggests the event will be kicking off soon; he can see Chris Miller, the chosen auctioneer three years running, straightening a thin stack of notecards in his hands. A heavyset figure winds his way through the people to Hank’s right and then Ben Collins is extending a styrofoam cup of mulled wine to him. “Cheers, Hank. Didn’t think this was your kind of thing.”

Hank guffaws, accepting the cup with a grin. “Shit, you think I’d miss Reed trying to pass himself off as a hot commodity? Not a chance.” Damn, the heated cup in his hands feels good. He should have brought gloves at least.

Ben casts a wandering glance over their vicinity. “Connor not with you?”

“He’s helping Miller with the auction, I guess,” Hank shrugs. He hasn’t seen the android all day, though he did get a text from him that morning, reading _I hope I’ll see you at the festival today, Lieutenant. I’ll be participating in the charity auction so maybe I’ll run into you afterward._

It was noncommittal, and Hank had sent a noncommittal response back— _Sounds good_. He and Connor are friends…ish; they get along well, spend hours together on the job, and occasionally even hang out in their down time. But Hank doesn’t have a clue what else Connor might have going on—does he have friends he might meet up with after this? Other obligations? Hank has no idea. He furrows his brow, focusing on the pleasant spice of the wine in his hands, when Chris steps onto the platform and the auction is off to the races.

Hank has to admit that it’s a pretty good time; the department has pulled together a decent number of participants from across the various units and precincts, Tina Chen, Amy Person, and Gavin Reed among them. They collect a tidy sum for Detroit Big Sibs—even Reed goes for a staggering $500, placed by a pretty young woman in a fur-collared parka. (“Now I’ve seen everything,” Hank mutters to Ben.)

It does stretch on for a bit longer than Hank anticipated, and he’s just considering ducking out and hunting down a refill on his drink when Miller announces, “All right, Detroit, we’re down to our last lot for the day, and trust me when I say that last is definitely not least! I hope you’ve saved something in your pocketbooks for a local celebrity, the first official android employee of the Detroit Police and a personal friend—Connor!”

Hank feels a sensation like all of his insides pulling taut. Somehow when Connor had said he was “participating in the charity auction”, Hank had neglected to consider that that meant _as a date_.

As the crowd applauds and cheers, Connor steps onstage and waves mildly, looking less like he’s trolling for dates and more like he’s about to give a lecture on prison reform. Whereas the other auctionees had hammed it up, strutting their stuff across the stage to top 40 hits (with the other exception of Reed, who could more charitably be described as _skulking_ ), Connor is almost painfully polite, his posture as stiff and formal as ever as he makes his way over to Chris. Ben is laughing, though not unkindly; still, Collins has the least punchable face Hank has ever seen but in that moment he finds it tempting.

Miller puts a chummy hand on Connor’s shoulder and grins out at the crowd. “Now, I can personally vouch for this guy, so I better see a bidding war here in a minute. Connor, do you want to tell them something about yourself?”

Wearing his characteristic small, pleasant smile, Connor leans in to the microphone—how is it that Hank can see how big his eyes are even from this distance?—and says, “Hello, my name is Connor. I’m a prototype android, though these days I guess you could just say I’m one of a kind.” Hank stifles a groan. “I love dogs, music, and cooking for my human friends.” _‘Friends’? How many does he have?_ “I’m very happy to be representing both androids and the DPD today.”

“And have you ever been on a date before, Connor?”

“No, I haven’t. I’m looking forward to the experience.”

Hank doesn’t realize his hands are empty until his toe nudges the empty styrofoam wine cup at his shoes, sending it circling around his foot. He can feel Ben’s eyes on him, but he refuses to acknowledge it, anticipating the ribbing that is definitely waiting the minute he makes eye contact.

“Well, what do you say, folks?” Chris’s voice snaps him back to attention. “Should we start the bidding at $50?”

Gloved hands shoot up, so many simultaneously that Hank doesn’t know how Chris singles out a bidder before swiftly moving on to $100, $200. Hank feels his field of vision narrow, shutting out surrounding distractions like when he’s in a high-pressure situation in the field, and then his hand is in the air as well and he’s silently thanking God for seeing fit to grant him with unusual height.

Chris catches his eye, looking confused for a moment before his face breaks into a broad grin. “$200 to the tall gentleman in the back, do I have $300?” Hank makes a mental note to buy Chris a fruit basket for not outing who he is to a cross-section of the entire city. Next to Chris, Connor has gone alert like a cat spotting a mouse, his face firmly trained on Hank. “$300, do I have _$500?_ ”

Ben’s round cheeks are lifted, crinkling his eyes, looking thoroughly entertained. “Hank, I didn’t realize you were so hard up for a date. I would’ve set you up.”

Hank grunts, his hand still raised as Chris rounds the corner for $500 and moves on to $600. “I’m doing this for his sake. Connor doesn’t know the first thing about dating.”

“Oh, you don’t mind if I bid on him, then?”

“Shut the fuck up, Ben.”

Hank feels his phone buzzing angrily in his pocket and he can see Connor’s LED spinning yellow on the stage, his eyes fixed on Hank like he’s trying to send messages straight into his skull. Like snapshots in his awareness, he catches glimpses of the other bidders—among others, a little old lady and Jeffrey Fowler’s _wife_ , and jesus balls is he not looking forward to seeing Fowler again on Monday—but he’s gone out of his mind and all that matters at the moment is winning this goddamned auction.

He must go into a fugue state, because the next thing he knows, he’s the winning bidder at an even $1000, his phone has finally stopped vibrating, and Connor is staring at him with a slightly slack-jawed expression.

Next to Hank, Ben lets out a low whistle and, out of the corner of Hank’s eye, he sees Ben raise his wine and grin. “Well. Enjoy your date, Hank. Ain’t that a thing.”

* * *

As the auction wraps up and the crowd disperses, Hank finally pulls out his phone and checks his messages. Two from Reed:

> Oh my god

> Lmfao

And, unsurprisingly, the rest are from Connor:

> :)

> I’m flattered, Lieutenant.

> Lieutenant, are you sure you can afford this?

> Hank, this is excessive.

> What are you doing?

> Hank

He gets wrapped up in his inbox too long to make a clean getaway, and the thing that snaps him out of it is the sound of dress shoes clicking crisply against the salted asphalt and Connor’s voice, not amplified by a microphone this time but right behind him.

“Lieutenant.” Connor’s tone is sharp but not angry, the question implicit in the word without him saying anything else.

“What,” Hank answers, glancing at him over his shoulder, not sure Connor can even see any of his face.

Connor circles to his front, attempting to make eye contact even as Hank stubbornly tries to avoid it. “While I’m flattered you think so highly of me, you realize you don’t need to spend money to spend time with me. Given your expenses, at your salary—”

Hank bristles at that. “I can _afford_ it, Connor, so stay the fuck out of my business.” He rubs his hands together against the December chill. “Just thought I was doing you a favor. You really want to hang out with a complete stranger?”

Connor’s LED spins slowly. “If I were opposed to it, I wouldn’t have participated. But… I appreciate your concern, Lieutenant.”

Some of the tension between them dissipates and Hank manages to actually look at Connor. Ironically, he actually is dressed for the weather, despite androids apparently not feeling the cold. A cozy-looking plaid scarf winds around his neck and drapes over a thick wool peacoat that Hank doesn’t recognize. Did he go _shopping_ for this? The thought that Connor may have actually been looking forward to this creeps, sour, into Hank’s stomach.

Thrusting his hands into his pockets, Hank grumbles, “Why didn’t you tell me you were… whatever this was.”

“Oh,” Connor says. “I was actually standing in for Captain Allen. I was originally only supposed to help organize, but the captain had a personal emergency and had to cancel on short notice, so Chris asked if I’d be interested in taking his place.”

That eases Hank’s guilt somewhat, but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s robbed Connor of the opportunity to go on a proper date, to meet someone new outside of the same police officers and Jericho members he sees every day. “Well. Sorry to make you spend more time with me, Connor. Probably not what you were expecting.”

Finally, a smile from Connor. “Not at all, Lieutenant. Like I said, you hardly need to have gone to such lengths to spend time with me. Have you given any thought to where you’d like to go?”

Suddenly, the reality of what Hank’s done begins to set in as he realizes that he now has to actually follow through with this. Taking his attractive, baby-faced partner out on a date that he’s only been granted because he shelled out a cool grand for the privilege. In the moment, he’d only been thinking about blocking _other_ people from doing the same, not fulfilling the expectation himself. Hoping Connor can’t see the mortification he feels, Hank casts around for a lifeline. “What about here?”

Connor blinks. “The park?”

“Why not? We’re already here.”

“Are you sure?” Connor asks, eyebrows knitted. “The department did allot us a $100 stipend if you’d rather go somewhere else…”

“Nah,” Hank waves a hand and begins walking, as if to say _see, this is already happening_. Connor falls in step at his side. “Haven’t had a chance to look around much yet and it’s a nice enough afternoon for a walk. You seen the lights yet?”

Connor smiles. “Not up close.”

“Sun should be setting pretty soon,” Hank says, tilting his chin skyward; the sun isn’t even actually visible, the overcast gray sky slowly but surely softening into twilight. “Last Christmas was shit for androids. You should get the full experience this year.”

“I’d like that.”

It’s nice walking with Connor like this, companionable and easy, though not entirely date-like. Hank keeps his hands shoved in his pockets and they walk only close enough together to avoid colliding with holiday market stalls and other people, and no closer. Connor seems… not nervous, but fidgety; Hank can feel his eyes flicking up to him and then back down repeatedly, like Hank and the sidewalk are playing each other at ping-pong.

“I wasn’t sure you would be at the auction today, to be honest,” Connor says finally. “Your enthusiasm for department-sponsored events has been… limited.”

“Can’t a guy get out of his house without you and Collins commenting on how surprising it is?”

“Detective Collins and I both seeing fit to comment on it would suggest that it’s noteworthy, Lieutenant.”

Hank grumbles a response that couldn’t really be called words.

Connor apparently isn’t done with him, though; he’s somehow managing to walk with his face fully turned toward Hank and yet not running into anyone. “Did you come expecting to participate?”

“Did I come to get a _date?_ Hell no.”

“You were very generous with your bid for a spontaneous decision, Lieutenant.”

Hank grimaces, suddenly gripped by the impulse to take Connor’s face in his hand and turn it away from him. “Yeah, well. It’s for a good cause.”

Connor hums and then falls silent, and for a moment Hank thinks that’s the end of it, but he should know better by now. “…Earlier you said you did it as a favor to me.”

“Huh?”

If Hank didn't know any better, he would describe Connor's smile as _impish_. “You’ve changed your story, Lieutenant. Earlier you said you bid on me to prevent me from having to go on a date with a stranger, but now you’re saying it was for the good of the charity.”

“Christ, Connor, can’t it be both?” Hank snaps, not sure why Connor is giving him the third degree about this. “Just leave it already.”

That puts a stop to that conversation, and Hank only feels a little bad about it when Connor finally looks away from him. They’re passing by the skating rink now, figures whizzing (or, in some cases, stumbling) by on the other side of a waist-high barrier. The wind picks up for a moment, cutting straight through Hank’s coat, and he can’t suppress a shiver.

Which, of course, does not go unnoticed by Connor. “Are you cold, Lieutenant?” he asks, the picture of attentiveness.

“I’m fine,” Hank grunts, even as he folds his arms tighter around his chest.

Connor is already slipping his scarf off. “Take this.”

“Connor, I don’t need your—”

“I insist. It’s purely aesthetic.”

Hank takes the scarf from Connor begrudgingly, not letting the android go so far as to wrap it around Hank’s neck himself. “…Thanks.”

“My gloves and coat aren’t likely to fit you, I’m afraid, but you’re welcome to them.” (“ _Jesus_ ,” Hank interjects under his breath.) “Would you like to go somewhere warmer?”

“We’re waiting to see the lights, remember?” Hank points out and blows into his cupped hands to warm them. “I’ll be fine as long as we keep moving.”

Connor’s eyes slide past Hank and behind him. His LED circles quickly. “…Would you like to try ice skating?”

“You wanna _ice skate?_ ”

“The exercise will help keep your temperature up. And I’ve never tried it.”

And that’s how Hank finds himself lacing up a pair of rented ice skates, sitting on a bench with his work partner and a couple of rosy-cheeked elementary school students.

Hank scrubs a hand over his eyes. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

Next to him, Connor rises and extends a hand to him with an encouraging smile. “It will be fun, Hank. And no one at the precinct needs to know.”

“Says the guy with a camera in his head,” Hank grumbles, allowing Connor to help him up but releasing his hand as soon as he’s on his feet. Admittedly his tall, broad body doesn’t look _exactly_ like it was made for skating, but he’s at least able to stay upright without handholding.

Hank has made his way over to the rink and stepped onto the ice when he realizes that Connor hasn’t followed him. He turns to see the android watching him in apparent surprise, his LED yellow. “What?”

Connor seems startled out of a thought. “Oh! It’s just… you seem very comfortable on skates, Lieutenant.”

“Don’t act so surprised. Played a lot of hockey in school,” says Hank, inwardly smug about exceeding Connor’s (admittedly low, apparently) expectations. “You coming?”

“Yes,” Connor declares, immediately straightening and approaching Hank. He enters the rink… and immediately his feet start to go out from under him as soon as his skates meet the ice.

“Whoa, easy!” Hank manages to get an arm around his back in time to keep him upright, and _christ_ Connor is heavier than he looks. “Shit, Connor. Here, lean on me and get your balance.”

With Hank’s help, Connor does get his feet back under him, but as soon as they try moving at all, he’s baby deer-ing again. Connor’s hands clamp around Hank’s arm like a vice, and Hank is starting to laugh, even though he knows it _kind of_ makes him at least a little bit of an asshole. “Connor, for fuck’s sake, I’ve seen you jump onto the back of a moving _train_ and this is what’s throwing you for a loop? You don’t have, like, ice skating calibrations you can run?”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” Connor says, and he doesn’t sound particularly embarrassed to be using Hank as a living crutch. “It seems that CyberLife didn’t anticipate that I would need to be able to maneuver myself on ice skates in the course of my duties.”

“And here I thought CyberLife thought of everything.” Hank adjusts Connor’s position, moving one of the android’s arms around Hank’s back to give him something to hold on to and looping one of his own around Connor’s back to help keep him upright. They look like they’re about to start the world’s ungainliest three-legged race. “Still want to do this?”

“Yes, if you’ll help me.”

“Hold on to me, then.”

They must make for a fairly ridiculous picture, towering Hank gliding slowly and slightly off-balance while Connor clings to him like a lanky sidecar. Most of the people surrounding the rink though, if they do notice, are polite enough not to stare. Connor’s hand fists in the material of Hank’s coat, and it occurs to Hank that this is definitely the longest they’ve been in direct contact with each other. It’s not… bad, Hank notes to himself. Kinda nice.

A few slightly uncoordinated laps around the rink and Hank has to accept that he’s not exactly in the best shape to be half-supporting a 200-pound android (seriously, he must be, what the hell did CyberLife make him out of, anyway) while simultaneously ice skating. “All right, I need a break,” Hank exhales, making his way over to the guard rail and helping Connor lean against it so Hank can stop and catch his breath. “Fuck, I’m old.”

“On the contrary, Lieutenant,” Connor says in the tone that Hank knows means there’s a jab incoming. “With a little more regular exercise, you—”

Hank cuts him off with a smirk. “Watch it, Bambi, I’m your ride back off the ice, remember?”

Connor ducks his head, smiling. “Fair enough. Thank you for your help, Lieutenant. This is fun.”

“Yeah.” Hank has to admit, it actually is. Though, he could do without the sweating, which he’s only just realized is happening now that he’s starting to cool down and he can feel the back of his neck going clammy. (Sweating on Connor’s scarf, he realizes with a grimace. Way to make a good impression for humanity.) He mops at his forehead with his palm.

In the moment he passes his hand over his face, there’s a sudden commotion on the opposite side of the rink and a gust of air sweeps past Hank. It takes him a second to realize that Connor is no longer next to him, and another second to put together that the displaced air was Connor shooting across the rink, where he now stands with a kid, a boy who looks maybe 8 or 9 years old, encircled in his arms.

Hank crosses the ice to join them just in time to hear Connor ask “Are you all right?” and the kid mumble “Yeah. Thanks.” Then the kid has taken off again, Connor is straightening up, and Hank’s brows are a heavy knot in his forehead.

“What the hell was that?” Hank prompts when Connor turns to him, looking away from the direction the kid headed.

“He was going too fast and lost control.” Connor’s tone is neutral. “He was about to run into the guard rail and stood an 80% chance of sustaining significant injury, so I intervened.”

Hank nods absently. “Guess you can skate after all, then.”

There’s a long pause where it seems like Connor may actually be considering lying. “…Yes.”

“So you were pretending to need my help?” Hank squints.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Connor is silent for a moment that stretches into awkwardness. His LED is rapidly blinking yellow as he visibly tries to formulate a response.

“What? Trying to make me feel better about myself?” Hank prompts.

“ _No_ ,” Connor counters immediately, but then hesitates. Finally, he continues, “…I wanted to get closer to you. You seemed distant and I just wanted… to connect with you. Isn't that what you do on dates?”

Guilt floods Hank and he’s immediately, irrationally resentful of it. “Christ, Connor, it's not a real date. I _paid_ for this. You don't have to do anything for my benefit.”

A shadow passes over Connor’s face and Hank knows he’s truly fucked up. “I see.”

Connor skates past him, heading for the opening in the railing to exit the rink. He doesn’t look at Hank. Hank lets his head roll back on his shoulders, mentally cursing himself, as he turns to follow him. “Connor, wait, I didn't mean—”

Connor’s voice is cool. “It's getting dark, Lieutenant. I’ll walk you back to your car.”

He and Connor change out of their skates in silence; Connor’s face is perfectly neutral, a statue. _He’s actually upset_ , Hank thinks dumbly. He’d really been looking for an excuse to hold onto him? Hank had been so caught up in feeling embarrassed that he had stolen Connor’s date like a jealous child, he hadn’t considered that Connor may actually have _wanted_ to go on a proper date with him. Not only had Hank snatched the opportunity away from someone possibly more in Connor’s league, but he hadn’t even given him a decent date in exchange. _I am a piece of shit_ , Hank concludes, a deduction he’s not unfamiliar with making.

The sun, hidden behind the clouds, is dipping below the horizon when they start walking, heading back out of the park; the Christmas lights shine brightly along their path. White bulbs glow in the tree branches over their heads, and Hank can see colored displays blinking and wheeling further in the distance. Connor's yellow LED is almost lost amongst the competing lights, but Hank is more aware of it than any of the others.

“We got to see the Christmas lights,” Hank offers, breaking the silence. “They’re nice this year.”

“Yes.”

He’d meant the proffered conversation as an olive branch, but somehow the tension increases for him having tried. Fully expecting this to go sideways, but deciding to take the risk, Hank opts for something different: he tentatively reaches out and takes Connor’s hand.

Connor slows to a stop, staring at the ground, but he doesn’t let go of Hank, at least. “Are you trying to make me feel better about myself?”

Hank exhales hard, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand. “Yeah, I deserve that.”

Connor lifts his head and meets Hank’s eyes, still holding on to him. “…It seems the parameters of this date were unclear to both of us, Lieutenant.”

A laugh escapes Hank in a rush. “Yeah, that’s a fuckin’ understatement.”

Connor’s fingers flex in Hank’s hand, like he’s testing its feel. “Why did you bid on me, Lieutenant?” he prompts quietly. “For charity? As a favor?”

Hank’s hindbrain scans around for an escape from this direct line of questioning, but thankfully his rational thought determines that he’s done enough obfuscating for one day. “Because I thought of you going out with someone else and I lost my mind.”

Almost in slow motion, a smile breaks out across Connor’s face. “I was hoping that was the case.”

Hank’s brain skips a gear. “You were?”

“Yes. I’ve been trying to get you to admit as much all day. I was afraid I’d lost my touch at extracting confessions.”

Hank sags; Connor grins like the cat that got the cream. Of course this metal bastard has had his number the entire time. “You unbelievable shithead.”

“Indeed. Do you regret choosing me, Lieutenant?”

“Yeah, I want a refund.”

Connor squeezes Hank’s hand. “All sales are final, I’m afraid.”

Hank wishes he could sit down. Now that they aren’t moving, the cold begins to seep back into his bones, and a tremor runs through him. Connor—perceptive, infuriating Connor—does not miss it. “Come here,” he says, and then he’s unbuttoning his coat, then Hank’s own.

“What—” is all Hank manages to say before Connor is stepping into his personal space and sliding his arms around him, underneath his coat. Warmth encompasses him like a space heater, radiating off of Connor’s body. It feels like Hank’s body thaws all at once and he groans before he can suppress it. “Fuck, why didn’t you do that earlier?”

“It’s unlikely you would have been receptive earlier, Lieutenant,” Connor answers. His face is close enough to Hank’s ear that it raises the hairs along the back of Hank’s neck.

“Yeah, I’m a broken man,” Hank mutters into Connor’s hair. All of his muscles have gone melty in the comforting warmth. He almost feels like he could fall asleep standing up. “So what happens now? I feel like I just lived a sitcom episode.”

“What do you want to happen now?”

“I want to take you on an actual date. Preferably one where I don’t have my head up my ass.” Connor laughs and the puff of breath against Hank’s neck makes him shiver despite Connor’s body heat. “What do _you_ want to happen now?”

“I’d like that as well. …And I’d like to kiss you. If you're amenable.”

Hank swallows. “Yeah. All right.”

He’s barely pulled back from Connor enough to make room before Connor’s lips meet his, soft but sure. It isn't a deep kiss, but long and slow, and it raises goosebumps on Hank’s arms. Connor’s body slots against him like he was made for it, warm and comfortable. It's good, Hank thinks. It’s good.

Finally, they break apart, though Hank thinks he could happily do that for hours. Connor's eyes are crinkled at the edges. “I liked that,” he says, and then his smile turns coy. “But it's impossible to draw a conclusion based on one data point. I’ll need a larger sample size.”

In the end, they donate the stipend for their date back to the charity, and Connor gets to do plenty of research on the subject of kissing Hank. He definitely likes it.


End file.
